“No, no, I'll be fine,” she said quickly as she turned away. Sybil had been a guest at Hartwell House countless times for soirees, interminable recitals, and sumptuous dinners. She'd be able to find her way easily enough once she reached the public areas.
She pushed out of the crowded kitchen and down the dark hall toward a better lit T, where the hall ran perpendicularly in both directions. Now, if she could avoid being seen in Jane's horrible homespun by anyone she knew, she just might make it through the evening.
Jane stared at the gilt ceiling, her vision going in and out of focus. A fresco of nude little cupids cavorted above Lord Hartwell's bed. She'd convinced Ian to let her remain more or less fully clothed, but her soul was stripped bare as the naughty cherubs.
Ian's nak*d body was stretched out beside her, his hardness rocking a slow knock against her hip. He'd parted the thin chemise enough to free her br**sts and was doing totally wicked things to them with his mouth. A small voice in her head whispered that this was madness, but Jane wouldn't stop him. Couldn't. No more than she could fly.
“Janie, love, have ye any notion how fine ye are?” He drew a slow circle around one of her aching n**ples with the tip of this tongue.
She gasped at the zing of pleasure that streaked from her breast to her womb. He rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and she arched her back reflexively. The man knew how to make her want.
“Say ye're mine,” Ian prodded.
With what she knew she still must do this evening, Jane couldn't bring herself to lie. “I belong to myself,” she said between gasps.
“Do ye? Perhaps I'll have to persuade ye different.” To prove his point, he trailed his fingertips down past her ribs, over the mound of her belly, and hiked up her gown. His thick fingers found the lacy slit in her pantaloons and played with the curls between her legs.
The ache grew deeper. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out as she crossed her ankles and clamped her thighs together, trapping his hand. He didn't try to free it, but he couldn't torment her with it either.
‘Not fair,” he said.
“Not fair? You're the one who forced me to come up here with you.”
“I'll not force you now. But open to me, love. I'll make you glad you did.”
When she didn't budge, he bent to nuzzle her nipple, sending another jolt of longing to her core. Her legs parted of their own accord.
His fingers slid deep into her wetness. Equal parts delight and despair shivered through her. He stroked her, teasing, featherlight touches. She raised her h*ps to meet him. His blessed hand stopped moving and settled over her hot mound, just holding her. She throbbed in an agony of need. Someone whimpered. She was too far gone to feel shame when she realized it was her.
His hand moved again, his fingers circling and stroking, whipping her into aching fury. “Admit ye're mine, girl.”
His lips closed over her nipple, suckling in rhythm with his hand. His fingers danced over her flesh. Helpless little sounds escaped her throat. Jane's breath hissed over her teeth. The wanting was so sharp-edged, she fisted Lord Hartwell's fancy counterpane with both hands, her eyes squeezed shut.
Then Ian stopped. Her eyes flew open. Her body screamed in frustration, but he left her throbbing with heat He withdrew his hand and sat up.
“Say it.”
She shook her head, not trusting her voice. If she spoke at all it would lead to pleading and she couldn't bear that.
“Can ye not? Then I'll try again,” he said, lowering his head to nip again at her breast. “Do ye no’ love me?”
“You know I do.”
“I belong to you, love. I'll not deny it.” He kissed her neck, teasing her earlobe with his tongue, while his fingers found that special spot that threatened to unravel her again. Her body shuddered with anticipation. “Try again. Are ye mine?”
Only all I am. He moved down between her legs and kissed her, open-mouthed. His tongue took over for his talented fingers.
“I... have mercy!” she gasped, propping herself on her elbows.
“There's none in me.” Ian looked up to meet her gaze for a moment, then returned to savaging her with his lips, teeth, and tongue.
She was losing herself. Bit by bit, little pieces of her were breaking off and floating away. Ian, too. With each of his growls of need, she sensed him letting go, releasing his tight rein on himself and joining her in this madness.
They were creating a special place together where there was no right or wrong, where there was only the dance of light and insanity of sensation, of need and heat and blessed friction. Of warm skin gliding on silk and fevered kisses. Of—
Ian moved up and slid his full length home.
A pinch of pain lanced her, then disintegrated in the bliss of holding him inside her. “Oh, Ian.”
Jane had led such a controlled existence 'til now. Do this. Don't go there. Touch not. She accepted that the circumstances of her birth had denied her certain things. Now unbridled life roared in her veins and she welcomed it.
No one would deny her here. There was no one else in this place apart, none but they two. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him farther into their private world of push and pull, rise and fall.
“Say ye are mine, love,” he urged, thrusting deep with each word. Then he stopped and raised himself on his elbows to look down at her. “Say it. Even if it's a lie.”
She was so close to some unseen edge. One more time, just one, and she'd unravel completely, like a spindle of yarn tossed across the floor, whipping free.
“I am yours, Ian Michael MacGarrett.” She rocked her pelvis, pressing her sensitive spot hard against him. The contractions began. She convulsed around him, urging him to join her. He moved with her. She bucked beneath him, holding him tight and wishing she'd never have to let him go.
“I'm yours,” she repeated. She didn't care if he used her words against her later. “Body and soul, bone and breath.”
A groan escaped his lips. Ian's body stiffened and he poured his seed into her, hot and steady, shuddering with the force of his release. Then he settled his cheek between her br**sts and lay still as a dead man, except that his breath feathered warmly over her tight nipple.
“I am yours.” She pressed a kiss on the crown of his tousled head. “And it is no lie.”
Chapter Eleven
Jane slid her fingertips along the indentation of Ian's spine. His breathing was so slow and even, she began to suspect he'd fallen asleep. She didn't care. Their bodies were no longer joined, but she still reveled in his weight on her.
She sighed in contentment. All her joints felt loose and she suspected she'd be a little sore in the morning. It didn't matter. She wouldn't trade this moment for—
The strains of a waltz drifted up to her ear.
“Oh, no!” She squirmed and Ian rolled off her. Jane scrambled from the bed, pulling her chemise top closed and knotting the lace tie. She fastened the buttons marching down the front of her gown and toed on her slippers. Thank God she'd insisted on remaining more or less clothed.
Ian sat up on the bed, his legs thrown over the side. “What the—”
“I must go.”
One look at him almost broke her resolve. Broad shouldered, deep-chested with the slightest dusting of dark hair whorled around his brown n**ples—Jane sighed and yanked her gaze from him. There was no help for it. The last waltz was playing. Jane ran to the mirror in the corner of Lord Hartwell's chamber, trying to finger-comb her coiffure back into some semblance of order.
She could hear the music more clearly now. How many bars was that? Eight? Sixteen already gone?
“Where do ye think ye're going?”
“To accept Lord Eddleton's proposal.” She strode toward the door.
He beat her there and splatted a thick palm against the English oak. “Jane, I beg ye. Dinna do this.”
“I gave my word.” She tugged on the handle but Ian held the door fast.
“And what of your word to me? Does that mean nothing?” Barely bridled anger rolled off him in scalding waves.
“I'm still yours. Now more than ever.” She put a palm to his cheek and his black scowl softened. “But this is something I must do for—”
“For Lord Somerville,” he finished.
“Yes, and for Sybil, too. Don't forget. If not for her needing to run off from time to time, neither of us would be able to read or write.”
“Sybil was a selfish, spoiled b—” He caught himself, drawing his lips tight. The joy of literacy was obviously the last thing on Ian's mind. “She dinna do it out of the kindness of her heart.”
“So you won't let me do this for her out of the kindness of mine?” She slid her palm down to his bare chest. The warmth of his flesh called to her and she almost gave answer.
“If Eddleton lays a hand on ye—”
“He won't,” she assured him. “A gentleman doesn't compromise a woman he intends to marry.”
“Hmph!” Ian's mouth turned up in a wicked grin. “Guess that makes me no gentleman.”
“No, thank heaven!” She arched a brow at him. There was another backhanded marriage proposal in there somewhere, but she didn’t have time to fish for it now. She stood tiptoe to peck his cheek. “Now let me go. And get yourself back into Charlie's livery before someone catches you here in the altogether.”
“Ye dinna want me to frighten the upstairs maid?”
“I don't want you to anything the upstairs maid,” Jane said with mock sternness, before she slipped out the door and down the dim hallway.
“
Is that a waltz?” Eddleton asked between gasping breaths.
“Why? Do you need music to keep the rhythm going?” Lady Darvish asked, grasping his buttocks and pulling him in deeper. “I'll hire a quartet full-time then, Bert! One-two-three, one-two-three...”
Jane was running now. It was like a nightmare from which she couldn’t wake! Hartwell House was so huge and the hallways so convoluted, she couldn't find the head of the staircase they had come up. She couldn't even hear the music any longer. She skittered to the end of the hall and started trying doors. Finally one opened onto a dimly lit back staircase and she dove down it at breakneck speed.
“There's no door,” she said in despair when she reached what should have been the second floor, the level of the ballroom. The staircase was obviously reserved solely for the use of those who served on the family's floor, so there was no need for another exit. She put an ear to the wall. Faintly, she heard the whine of violins. “There's still time.”
She turned and continued downward. “This staircase has to end somewhere.”
“Careful with that, my good man,” Giovanni said as he handed his top hat to Lord Hartwell's porter. “The beaver, she does not like to be crushed.”
“Of course, milord,” the servant said, bowing deeply. “Lord Hartwell is in his study with several other members of the House of Lords. Whom shall I tell him is calling?”
“The Count of Montferrat.” Giovanni flared his nostrils with aristocratic disdain, as if noticing for the first time that a grand fete was in progress. “But do not trouble his lordship. I can hear he has a small entertainment under way. Perhaps I should return at a later time.”